It was not until the evening when old John Runnels, who had been the
town marshal in my school days, and was now chief of police under the
new city charter, came into the dingy little private banking room to
arrest me that I began to realize, though only in a sort of dumb and
dazed fashion, how much my promise to Agatha Geddis might be going to
cost me.
But even if the full meaning of the promise had been grasped at the
time when my word was given, it is an open question if the earlier
recognition of the possible consequences would have made any
difference. Before we go any farther, let it be clearly understood
that there was no sentiment involved; at least, no sentimental
sentiment. Years before, I, like most of the other town boys of my
age, had taken my turn as Agatha's fetcher and carrier; but that was
only a passing spasm--a gust of the calf-love which stirs up momentary
whirlwinds in youthful hearts. The real reason for the promise-making
lay deeper. Abel Geddis had been crabbedly kind to me, helping me
through my final year in the High School after my father died, and
taking me into his private bank the week after I was graduated. And
Agatha was Abel Geddis's daughter.
Over and above the daughterhood, she was by far the prettiest girl in
Glendale, with a beauty of the luscious type; eyes that could toll a
man over the edge of a bluff and lips that had a trick of quivering
like a hurt baby's when she was begging for something she was afraid
she wasn't going to get. All through the school years she had been one
of my classmates, and a majority of the town boys were foolish about
her, partly because she had a way of twisting them around her fingers;
partly, perhaps, because her father was the rich man of the community
and the president of the Farmers' Bank.
She had sent for me to come up to the big house on the hill the night
before this other night of old John Runnels's call. I went, taking it
as a matter of course that she wished to talk to me about the trouble
at the bank, and saying to myself that I was going to be iron and steel
and adamant; this when I might have known that I should be only putty
in her hands. She met me on the porch, and made me sit with my back to
the window, which was open, while she faced me, sitting in the hammock
where the house lights fell fairly upon her and I could get the full
benefit of the honeying eyes and baby lips as she talked.
She had begun by saying in catchy little murmurings that I knew better
than any one else what it was going to mean to her--to all of them--if
her father's crookedness (she called it his "mistake") in using the
depositors' money for his own speculations should be published abroad;
and I did. She was engaged to young Wheeland, son of the copper
magnate Wheeland, of New York, and the wedding date was set. Black
ruin was staring them all in the face, she said, and I could save them,
if I only would. What would be shouted from the housetops as a
penitentiary offense in the president of the bank would be condoned as
a mere error in judgment on the part of a hired bookkeeper.
If I would only consent to let the directors think that I was the one
who had passed upon and accepted the mining-stock collateral--which had
taken the place in the bank's vault of the good, hard money of the
depositors--well, I could see how easily the dreadful crisis would be
tided over; and besides earning the undying gratitude of the family,
her father would stand by me and I would lose nothing in the end.
For one little minute she almost made me believe what she didn't
believe herself--that the crime wasn't a crime. Her father, "our
eminent and public-spirited fellow-citizen, the Hon. Abel Geddis," to
quote the editor of the Glendale _Daily Courier_, was desperately
involved. For months he had been throwing good money after bad in a
Western gold mine; not only his own money, but the bank's as well. At
the long last the half-dozen sleepy directors, three of them retired
farmers and the other three local merchants, had awakened to the fact
that there was something wrong. They didn't know fully, as yet, just
what they were in for; Geddis's part of the bookkeeping was in a
horrible muddle owing to his efforts to hide the defalcation. But they
knew enough to be certain that somebody had been skating upon thin ice
and had broken through.
"You can't help seeing just how it is, Herbert," Agatha had pleaded,
with the soulful look in her pretty eyes and the baby lips all in a
tremble. "If the faintest breath of this gets out, VanBruce Wheeland
will have to know, and then everything will come to an end and I shall
want to go and drown myself in the river. You are young and strong and
brave, and you can live down a--an error of judgment"--she kept on
calling it that, as if the words had been put into her mouth; as they
probably had. "Promise me, Herbert, won't you?--for--for the sake of
the old times when you used to carry my books to school, and I--I----"
What was the use? Every man is privileged to be a fool once in a
while, and a young man sometimes twice in a while. I promised her that
I would shoulder the load, or at least find some way out for her
father; and when she asked me how it could be done, I was besotted
enough to explain how the mining-stock business had really passed
through my hands--as it had in a purely routine way--and telling her in
so many words that everything would be all right for her father when
the investigating committee should come to overhaul the books and the
securities.
When I got up to go, she went to the front steps with me, and at the
last yearning minute a warm tear had splashed on the back of my hand.
At that I kissed her and told her not to worry another minute. And
this brings me back to that other evening just twenty-four hours later;
I in the bank, with the accusing account books spread out under the
electric light on the high desk, and old John Runnels, looking never a
whit less the good-natured, easy-going town marshal in his
brass-buttoned uniform and gilt-banded cap, stumbling over the
threshold as he let himself in at the side door which had been left on
the latch.
I had started, half-guiltily, I suppose, when the door opened; and
Runnels, who had known me and my people ever since my father had moved
in from the farm to give us children the advantage of the town school,
shook his grizzled head sorrowfully.
"I'd ruther take a lickin' than to say it, but I reckon you'll have to
come along with me, Bertie," he began soberly, laying a big-knuckled
hand on my shoulder. "It all came out in the meetin' to-day, and the
d'rectors 're sayin' that you hadn't ort to be allowed to run loose any
longer."
The high desk stool was where I could grab at it, and it saved me from
tumbling over backward.
"Go with you?" I gasped. "You mean to--to _jail_?"
Runnels nodded. "Jest for to-night. I reckon you'll be bailed, come
mornin'--if that blamed security comp'ny that's on your bond don't kick
up too big a fight about it."
"Hold on--wait a minute," I begged. "There is nothing criminal against
me, Uncle John. Mr. Geddis will tell you that. I----"
The big hand slipped from my shoulder and became a cautionary signal to
flag me down.
"You mustn't tell me nothin' about it, Bertie; I don't want to have to
take the stand and testify against your father's boy. Besides, it
ain't no kind o' use. You done it yourself when you was up at Abel
Geddis's house las' night. Two of the d'rectors, Tom Fitch and old man
Withers, was settin' behind the window curtains in the front room
whilst you was talkin' to Miss Agathy on the porch. You know, better'n
I do, what they heard you say."
For a second the familiar interior of the bank went black for me. I
was young in those days; much too young to know that human nature in
the lump is neither all saint nor all devil; that a man may be a second
father to you for years, and then turn and hold your head under water
until you drown when he is fighting for himself. It had been a trap,
deliberately set and baited with Agatha. I remembered now that she had
not spoken loud enough to be overheard; while I, with my back to the
open window, had talked in ordinary tones. Fitch and Withers had heard
me say that the investigating committee would find nothing against Abel
Geddis, and they had naturally taken it as a confession of my own guilt.
I remember that I went quite methodically about putting things away
while Runnels waited, though every move was dumbly mechanical.
Something seemed to have died inside of me, and I suppose the
psychologists would say that it was the subconscious Bert Weyburn who
put the books in the vault, locked the iron door, set the high desk in
order, and turned off all the lights save the one we always left turned
on in front of the vault.
Afterward, when we were in the street together, and Runnels was walking
me around the square to the police station, the dead thing inside of me
came alive. It had gone to sleep a pretty decent young fellow, with a
soft spot in his heart for his fellow men, and a boy's belief in the
ultimate goodness of all women. It awoke a raging devil. It was all I
could do to keep from throttling unsuspecting John Runnels as we
tramped along side by side. I could have done it. I had inherited my
father's well-knit frame and serviceable muscles, and all through my
office experience I had kept myself fit with long walks and a few bits
of home-made gymnastic apparatus in my room at Mrs. Thompson's. And
the new-born devil was ready with the suggestion.
I have been glad many times since that old John never knew; glad that
the frenzied curses that came boiling up out of that inner hell were
wordless. I contrived to hold in while Runnels was hurrying me through
the station office and past the sleepy sergeant at the desk. But when
the cell door had opened and closed for me, and old John's heavy
footsteps were no longer echoing in the iron-floored corridor, the
newly hatched devil broke loose and I made a pretty bad night of it.